Tag: nodapl

Like any devout fan of live music, I’ve spent time at beautiful outdoor concert venues all around the country, dancing in the breeze to the songs of my favorite bands, soaking up the mountains, deserts and oceans that stretch out for miles in every direction. And like many of the people who surround me in the crowd, I’ve been able to enjoy these panoramic views and natural amphitheaters without having much of a clue about their history. After all, as a third-generation Jewtalian-American, my limited knowledge of these places comes from books, rather than stories passed down by ancestors who lived in this land for generations before Europeans arrived here. Because my personal connection to these once-wild expanses of nature goes only as far as the music I’ve heard there (and a few memorable hikes), it can be a harsh wake-up call when I’m reminded that this isn’t the case for all Americans.

One of those reminders came yesterday on the steps of the Denver Capitol, where I’d gathered with a hundred or so others to voice our opposition to the Dakota Access Pipeline in solidarity with the Native American Water Protectors at Standing Rock. We’d returned to the Capitol after rallying there, then marching down to the Wells Fargo Center and parading around its lobby, chanting “Divest from DAPL” and “Water is Life” to bewildered security guards. There had been no arrests, and the energy in the air was full of determination and hope. Several of the indigenous activists who’d organized the rally took time to speak, and it was then that I was jolted out of my comfort zone.

“Look over there toward Red Rocks!” one of the Native elders instructed, and we all turned to face west. “This was one of the last places of Native resistance in Colorado. Every time I hear that damn rock and roll music, I think of how this land was taken from us.”

“That damn rock and roll music.” I had to check myself and the immediate stab of defensiveness I felt when I heard those words. How many shows have I seen at the Red Rocks amphitheater? How many of my friends have played music on that stage, and how many more aspire to do so? After all, we know it as the home of the most glorious natural acoustics in the country. We know it as a place of music, art and community, not as a site of oppression and genocide. But isn’t that the point? We’re privileged to lap up the visual and sonic beauty of Red Rocks, without having to acknowledge or even be aware of the pain that many Native people associate with it. This understanding sank into my heart like a stone as I reminded myself not to be surprised – this is the reality of living in the place we now call America.

How many Native ceremonies took place where that stage now stands? How many lives and homes were destroyed to eventually make room for bleachers, concession stands and a visitor center? How many solemn or celebratory processions were made up those rock formations before there were friendly little trails leading to the top? These are the questions now bouncing around my mind as I’m reminded that this place I love is only available to me because of the suffering of those who were there first, those who were cleared out of the way. The same is true of the United States as a whole – we of non-Native ancestry are only here because the Natives who lived here first were forcibly removed.

The same force used by the United States government to violently remove indigenous tribes from Red Rocks is being used by modern-day colonists to remove them from everywhere else in this country, including the Cannonball River in Standing Rock, North Dakota – where instead of a stage, they’re building the Dakota Access Pipeline. White Americans have a tendency to be defensive about the history of the places we love, to claim that it wasn’t us who displaced and destroyed their inhabitants. We hate being reminded of that shameful past because it makes us feel a whole range of unpleasant emotions, from guilt to anger to depression. But giving in to that defensiveness is what makes it easy for us to ignore all the ways we can be working against the same kind of atrocities in the present and future. Within a water-poisoning pipeline, a Muslim ban, a surge of deportations and indiscriminate drone strikes are echoes of the same entitlement and aggression that wiped out massive populations of indigenous people in this country. The difference is that now, I can’t say “it wasn’t me” unless I’m actively working to end that aggression.

I can choose to be defensive about my identity as the descendant of European immigrants who settled in territory originally occupied by Natives. I can choose to be paralyzed by guilt over my perceived role in perpetuating colonialism as a white American. Or I can choose to participate in decolonization whenever possible – whether that means showing up to protest injustice against people of color, putting my body on the line against aggressive law enforcement trying to maintain the status quo, or simply living my life with the awareness that there’s a hell of a lot I still don’t know about the dark history of this nation. And the next time I hear “that damn rock and roll music” reverberating off of those red rocks, I can choose to listen even closer, until I hear the sound of Native drums still beating – faintly at first, but growing louder every day, until they can no longer be drowned out.

As I march beside hundreds of silent women toward the imposing guards of the Dakota Access Pipeline, I wonder why we don’t do this every damn day, every-damn-where in the world. Arms linked, we march from the camp to the bridge, where behind towering concrete barricades lurks an LMTV (with a gunner!). The smell of sage fills the air, and not a word is uttered. I feel stronger than I ever did during my six years in the army, when an M16 was my useless bodyguard, and anger, my daily drug. Neither anger nor firepower can match the strength of a procession of women peacefully united for a common cause.

The women lead, with the men following behind to “hold the space,” keeping a protectively small distance. Indigenous people, effortlessly confident in the rightness of their action, invite us all to pray with them for the water – and even though praying is not a thing I’ve done in years, I realize the prayer isn’t the kind I performed as a kid in church, but a summoning of the power of the universe to right the wrongs of humanity. We are protecting the water because it is the reason for life, and the women here at Oceti Sakowin Camp know the best way to protect it is not through violent attacks, but through powerful, prayerful, silent presence.

We can tell it’s the women who know because this camp is a matriarchy, and it’s the women who make the decisions – it’s they, not the men, who’ve been calling for the unarmed, peaceful protest that’s been going on here for nearly four months. It’s they who march us forward onto the bridge, then signal: Sit down. We sit. In the front of the march, hands flashing the sign for peace (or perhaps the sign for victory) reach toward the sky, and the gesture ripples back through the crowd. Hundreds of hands, silently floating up toward circling airplanes and surveillance drones, spread their frigid fingers, as the bodies attached to them kneel on the road in the bitter North Dakota wind, praying for the water. We have no idea whether the authorities will attempt to intervene, but we do know that they don’t need a reason to try. We also know that we have every reason to stay exactly where we are.

They don’t intervene. They don’t even make a sound. As daylight begins to fade, we all stand and turn to look over the bridge to our left, where a group of our indigenous leaders are beginning to drum, chant and pray beside the river. Rose-tinted clouds appear in the evening sky, reddening as the sun sinks, melting into blue and then grey as the elders finish their ceremony. A bundle of sage passes through the crowd, its cleansing smoke fanned by hand after hand, and I feel as calm and centered as I ever have, strengthened by the collective intention powering this movement. We all silently link arms and march back to the camp, where an elder thanks us for the work we’ve done today, for completing our action in prayerful silence.

“They didn’t think we could do it, but we did it,” she says, and although I don’t know specifically who “they” are, I understand that this action was done to prove as much to ourselves and our allies as to the Army Corps of Engineers, the government of North Dakota, or the investors in the Dakota Access Pipeline. We’ve shown everyone watching and listening that our quiet, confident presence is our greatest show of strength – not noise, not aggression, not violence, but determination, and peaceful, passionate silence. We are Woman – hear our hearts beat. We don’t need to roar.